


So Wake Up Sleepy One

by NorthwesternInsanity



Category: Metallica, Music RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Coma, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fill, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 18:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20783441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthwesternInsanity/pseuds/NorthwesternInsanity
Summary: AU: Nobody expected the empty, hopeless wish James made on that stormy night stranded in the airport terminal mere days before Christmas would come true. But now Cliff is awake in a world much different from the one he knew ten years ago, and he's far from the only one with a long recovery still ahead.





	1. Prologue: Cthulhu Awaken

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Rockfic's (delayed, due to a site outage) 2019 Ficmas in July fest for user Akichin, who requested a Reload Era AU where Cliff had been in a coma after the crash and woke up 10 years later. Eventual Cliff/James.

_...May I have your attention please? Continental Airlines flight 689 leaving from gate 2A at 8:00 PM to Newark has now been cancelled... US Airways flight 272 leaving from gate 14E to Charlotte has been further delayed from 7:00 PM to 7:30. Please stand by and be alert for further updates... Northwest Airlines flight 194 leaving from gate 17B to Jacksonville remains delayed, but have sent an update that the aircraft is now on an approach course and will be landing shortly. If you are on that flight, please listen closely for instruction, as that aircraft is arriving. We will be attempting to have it depart as soon as the aircraft is prepped and the way is seen clear from the control tower. If you have more questions about the status of those flights or others, please proceed to the designated customer service location for your concourse..._

"Thank fock we're not dealing with that," said Lars from where Metallica sat camped out in an airport terminal in Chicago. "It's bad enough."

They were stranded while the outer reaches of a December, midwestern storm struck at the airport, and blocked the path of just about every departure to the North, and any direction East that didn't also trend far South.

So long as they looped around Colorado, the way West and homeward bound was tame by comparison. A detour wasn't difficult to take when equipped with a private charter. The only thing standing between them and departure was a clear window in the storm gusts to allow a smaller jet to take off safely -and takeoff would be plenty rough even with a go-ahead from air traffic control.

"I get just the slightest fear we're gonna learn a new definition of head banging with this takeoff," said Kirk, voice tinged with nerves.

"Hey, at least you all will be home for Christmas." Jason had given up on on his plan of trying to get a flight straight to Michigan from the last stop of the tour before the break. With the wrath of this storm, he'd spend less time waiting for it if he went back to California and tried to get a last-minute flight in on Christmas Eve, even with the added distance.

None of the others reacted to his statement, though. He might as well have not said anything.

"I think I'm gonna add to my horror collection for Christmas," said Kirk. "I'm getting excited to figure out what it's gonna be."

"I'll just be excited for some focking downtime -if there even is such a thing. What do you want for Christmas, James?" asked Lars, watching the snow swirling through the air outside the terminal in the bitter cold air they'd all soon leave behind for the kinder, California warmth.

James stared out the same windows, eyes heavy-lidded and with a mile-long, drunken stare. He watched luggage carts serving the larger commercial jets slipping ever so slightly as they turned corners on the icy concrete platform outside the gate. A 757 in Northwest livery, easy to spot through the snowy fog by its red tail, took a bouncy landing on the runway and its nose shifted from side to side as it came to a stop on the runway fighting the crosswind. Though the heat was cranked high enough inside to make the large glass panes fog at the edges and the jolly tunes of Christmas classics continued over the speakers through the building, James shuddered to the cold world outside, seeming to go numb with it.

"I'll bet you could guess," he finally muttered. "But I already gave up on it a long time ago."

Lars huffed a sigh and got up to make his way to the public phones. A call home would kill some time. And the weather would surely attempt to spite him when the talk became good by creating a clearing just long enough to get them taken off and safely above the clouds.

Had it been 1985, they'd have likely been plowing their way down the highway on a bus, already halfway home, and likely out of Illinois before the storm had a chance to bear down on it. Had they chosen to go that way, they still would have likely had the same outcome now.

The thought of riding overnight on a bus though, and especially in cold weather, was too much for Lars, James, and Kirk to stomach. The extra time waiting in the airport was worth the peace of mind.

_I doubt it'll happen too,_ Lars thought as he dialed the phone and scoffed at the overly-cheerful sound of Perry Como's "Home for the Holidays" playing overhead. _But it'd be really focking cool if Cliff did come back for Christmas._

But the odds of someone waking up fully functional after a decade-long coma with no response to external stimuli, save for the occasional muscular reflex, were little-to-none. That would take a miracle and a half, and an insane amount of good luck.

And while Metallica had risen to a pinnacle of fame and power in the industry, they'd had enough of a past for Lars and James both to doubt they had that much luck.

Three nights later, in a San Francisco Hospital, an unusually quiet evening shift for the standards of Christmas Eve was taking the one turn for the unexpected that even the most experienced staff with more than their fair share of horror stories weren't ready to believe.

The youngest, newest nurse in the ward came sprinting down the hallway from the three rooms she constantly watched. Having been unable to get an answer on the PA call button from the room, she skidded to a stop in the main nurse's station of her section, hollering out.

"Call for the doctor!"

The oldest, supervising nurse cast her the baleful look reserved only for rookies who acted foolish, or made their greenhorn status painfully noticeable. 

"Angela Pascalino, this is a _hospital,"_ she said condescendingly. "We have regulations against noise and running -not to mention abandoning your post before calling-"

"-Nobody answered, and it couldn't wait to try again," the young, resident nurse insisted. "Coma patient, ten years -his vitals started jumping, and he's awake, I swear it-"

Greenhorn or not, the eldest nurse had earned herself a reputation for being plenty tough, and not afraid to stick anyone in their place and lay down the law. If someone dared to challenge her, there was a reason, and the doubt seemed to get sucked up the air vents on the spot.

Everything around the long-term ward seemed to move in slow-motion from those words forward. Other nurses and security guards began pulling phones from hooks, shouting orders over the intercom, and grabbing carts. All regulations against running and making excessive noise in the hallway were temporarily thrown to the wind.

_"Dr. Lindenwood to the long-term ICU!"_

_"We need a pulmonary tech!"_

_"Glasgow Coma Score has risen from 5 to 9! Make that 10! He's attempting words against the tube!"_

_"Someone contact the on-call neurologist as soon as we stabilize vitals..._

The older, supervising nurse got up and made the walk down the hall to confirm the rookie nurse's observation amidst the chaos, where she was met with the tall lanky, auburn-haired man -far thinner than he'd been when he'd permanently entered that hospital a year into his coma -staring toward her with panicked, wide brown eyes, and fighting just to lift an arm and form a grasp around the tube down his throat, which he choked against with muffled moans.

"Glasgow Coma Score is now a 13," reported the youngest nurse, updating the wall chart as his eyes remained fully open without any applied stimulus.

Whether or not he was fully functioning, he was aware of the commotion around him enough to be frightened. And he was aware of the breathing tube down his throat. The tube which had kept him from choking when he'd shown no ability to swallow, while he breathed through for ten years on his own with the help of a CPAP combination to keep the way clear, never needing a full respirator. Now it choked him as he tried to swallow against it.

"Hold it!" the older nurse shouted in her voice that had turned raspy with age, but still held the same command from her days of leading paramedic rescue teams. "Right there! Don't you move until I say."

A nurse specializing in respiratory support came in and unplugged one of the countless wires on one of many machines, and a roar resembling a vacuum came to a stop, revealing different sets of unsteady beeping clashing with silence.

The positive air pressure against the breathing tube stopped, and though labored and gagging against it, he sucked in a healthy inhale that made his bony shoulders rise, pushed out an exhale that brought them down, and repeated the process with slightly more ease each time.

The respiratory nurse nodded and the older nurse pointed commandingly at the rookie, who took a syringe to some small piece to the rubber tube connecting the man's mouth to the hose. 

He felt the tube shrink in his throat as the cuff securing it in place and sealing his trachea deflated, losing its air to the syringe.

"Cough," ordered the younger nurse, taking hold of the tube, eyes staring off distantly as though she had gone into some state of shock and disbelief, and had only continued her functions by the muscle memory that had already been deeply drilled into her.

The man coughed and as his glottis expanded, the tube came gliding out. He panted and lay back as his gag reflex finally let up.

"Kirk," he murmured, semi-deliriously. "James, Kirk... Lars..."

"Calm down, sir," the older nurse warned sternly, picking up a clipboard. "If you can, I need you to give me your full name and date of birth."

"Clifford Lee Burton," he rasped out, swallowing against a bone-dry throat. "February tenth, 1962 -oh, fuck, if you could call me 'Cliff' ...and maybe, get me something to drink? ...Please?"

The nurse continued. "What year is it, to your last ability to recall?" It wouldn't rule out the possibility of amnesia, but his response would ultimately spell the prognosis of how likely recovery was.

"1986."

The nurse wrote something on the clipboard and set it down, and Cliff swallowed dryly.

"Welcome back, Mr. Burton, or Cliff, as you prefer. There's quite a lot we need to take care of tonight, and I have to warn you that some of it may come as a shock."


	2. Tied to Machines that Make Me Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Cliff enters conscious recovery, he has to come to terms with what has passed him, what is now, and what lies ahead. He has a difficult list to behold.

The first week back in the world of living, and after waking up in the 90s, was hell for Cliff.

It wasn't that he wasn't happy and grateful to be alive, or that he couldn't handle the changes. Already, without even leaving the hospital, there were so many cool-looking things around him even his own imagination couldn't have dreamed up. But slowly plugging the holes in his memory back up, coming to terms with just how much time in his life he'd missed, and regaining the very minimal physical strength he had were tasks physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting.

Reuniting with his father three days into recovery, once he'd been deemed stable enough, was tough. It was good, but Cliff couldn't remember a more overwhelming experience in his lifetime. Even the crash, which beyond the impact he didn't have much recall of, hadn't been so painful. Nor was realizing the time he'd had flashes of awareness in the dark, wondering where everyone was, had been ten whole years.

Finding out that he'd woken up on Christmas Eve made him feel that his awakening was the ironic mix of a Christmas miracle and a sick joke.

It seemed after that day of first reunion, when everything about where he was became _too_ real, Cliff couldn't sleep at night. He'd slept for ten years, and his body wanted nothing to do with shutting off for more than a couple of hours for the time being.

He spent the nights in the hospital with the room lights dimmed, making lists in his head of all the things he realized that he didn't understand, the things he still couldn't remember, and what he didn't know how to deal with.

He didn't understand how there was a metal rod in his left upper arm replacing shattered bone, or that the bones in both his legs and his right arm had been reconstructed with screws and plates that would always remain with him. Or that he'd lost his two lower ribs on the right side entirely, and one in the middle on the left side. Being so close to vital organs that could be damaged by hardware that failed, the spaces had been left unclosed.

He didn't understand how aside from the gaps in his ribs, he couldn't feel the changes to his frame when he delicately pressed with weak fingertips.

He didn't know if maybe that was a good thing, however. The first time he felt the gap in the middle of his left ribcage, he vomited.

He didn't know how to deal with his muscles having wasted away to all but nothing. Standing up was impossible, and sitting up without the support of lifting the bed behind him triggered waves of nausea after a few short minutes. It had been two days before he'd been able to lift his head on his own without throwing up more. Maybe some of that had been the result of putting foreign fluids in his stomach for the first time in so long, but it wasn't the source of the rebellion alone.

He didn't know how to deal with how many tubes and wires still tethered and supported him -how many were still vital to his life after clearing the barrier of waking up.

He didn't know how to deal with the possibility of discovering irreparable nerve damage as his recovery went on far enough to allow them to determine what tactile sensation couldn't tell alone. So far, the best news he had going for him was everywhere they'd tested, he had sensation to touch and temperature. His reflexes were present, and some had remained active while he was unconscious, but his voluntary range of motion was weak.

He didn't know how to deal with knowing he'd have to remain in the hospital for months just to be healthy enough to go into a standard physical rehab facility, and didn't know how to deal with not having a definite answer as to just how long his recovery would be.

He didn't know how to deal with it when his father came back two days after his first visit and placed his bass beside him on the bed. The neck felt so comfortingly familiar when his fingers contacted it, but he couldn't get the satisfying push of his fingers into the thick strings because they were too frail to push that hard. The impressive calluses he'd once had were gone, as were the muscles in his hands and the thin layer of fat padding his fingertips and palms, and his skeletal fingers hurt even with the failed grip.

He didn't understand why he could remember Dave Mustaine and his sad day of departure, but couldn't remember just how bad he he'd been leading up to warrant being kicked out. He didn't understand anymore whether the decision had been justified, or if he and the others had been just as bad in their own ways, and he didn't know how to deal with feeling guilty about the hard decision he'd once been at peace with.

He didn't understand how he couldn't remember the name of the band he'd been in, until his father had finally told him it was Metallica. He didn't understand how he _could_ remember Lars, James, Kirk, Dave, and even that he'd replaced a guy named Ron if he really racked his brain, but couldn't remember just how massive a band they'd created together in their good, fun times. He did remember everyone with their instruments, being onstage and on the road together, and remembered all the songs, especially when his father played a CD on a portable boombox in the hospital room -rather than the records they might have once played on a turntable. And he didn't know how to deal with that.

He knew he'd have to reunite with his bandmates soon enough, and he wanted them to be there already. But he also realized that they'd seen him pulled from the wreckage of the bus he'd been crushed under, and had all grieved him and been under the belief he would eventually die. He didn't know how _they_ were going to deal with that, let alone himself.

He didn't know how he was going to deal with hearing what that night had been like from their perspective -but ultimately, he knew he needed to.

He understood that they'd missed him, experienced pain, experienced the difficult decision to replace him, and he knew that he would _never_ fully understand what the last decade had been like for his bandmates -friends who he'd been close enough with to call family.

And he understood that over the next few weeks, months, or however long recovery was going to be, he was inevitably going to realize more things he didn't know or understand that he wasn't aware of yet. Somehow, he would have to figure out how to deal with those too as he got to them, whether he knew how to or not.

Everything on Cliff's mental list lay ahead as things he would have to come to terms with in 1997.

It repeated endlessly in his mind as he looked out on the city through the window of his room, and listened to the people outside the quiet of the hospital, ringing in the New Year on the streets below.


End file.
